


Post-Traumatic

by kiscico



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Episode Fix-It: s04e17-18 The End of Time, Episode: s04e17-e18 The End of Time, Fix-It, M/M, Post-Episode: s04e17-e18 The End of Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-07 16:03:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14084520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiscico/pseuds/kiscico
Summary: After Gallifrey and Rassilon fade back into the Time War, the Doctor gets his reward and the Master finally gets some proper clothes.A Ten/Simm!Master canon-divergence/fix-it of "The End of Time"





	Post-Traumatic

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally titled "The Master's New Clothes."
> 
> This is just a straight-forward Ten/Simm!Master fix-it of "The End of Time." Some the dialogue (especially with Wilf) has been lifted directly from EoT, since this is meant to be a divergent re-write of the episode. 
> 
> I'm not sure which fic I pulled the phrase/concept "artron progenation" from, or if it was from pre-2005 canon material... if anyone knows, please, please let me know so I can credit appropriately.

After Rassilon, Gallifrey, and the Master fade back into the timelock, the Doctor is left laying in the shattered glass of the grand room of the Naismith mansion. 

“I’m alive,” the Doctor says. He pushes himself up, almost to sitting, completely shocked, “I… I’m st… I’m still alive.” 

He doesn’t quite cry, but instead produces a series of shocked huffs of laughter. He breathes deep, full of relief. He’s alive. His hearts are broken. He’s got one hell of a headache. But he’s alive. He’s just about to stand when he hears it. 

_Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock._

It can’t be, he thinks. The Master is gone. But then it comes again. _Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock._

There’s a pause. The Doctor suddenly knows what he’s going to see when he finds his feet. _Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock._

As he sits up, he finally takes note of the sounds of failing equipment. The nuclear bolt is still running. More than that, it sounds on the brink of critical failure. _Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock._

The Doctor looks up and over at Wilf, who waves at him.

“They gone, then?” he asks. “Yeah, good’o. If you could let me out?”

“Yeah,” the Doctor says. He understands now. 

“This thing seems to be making a bit of a noise,” Wilf sounds nervous. He should, given that he’s bare minutes away from death.

“The Master left the nuclear bolt running,” the Doctor explains. “It’s gone into overload.”

“And that’s bad, is it?” Wilf still looks nervous.

“No,” the Doctor shrugs, a shade callous, “because all the excess radiation gets vented in there. Vinvochi glass contains it. All 500,000 rads about to flood that thing.”

“Oh,” Wilf says. Then with a huff of frightened laughter, he adds, “well, you better let me out then.”

“Except it’s gone critical,” the Doctor says. Wilf looks so _frightened_. “Touch one control and it floods.” The Doctor reaches into his jacket and pulls out his sonic screwdriver. He looks at it thoughtfully, and then gestures to Wilf with it, “even this would set it off.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sure,” the Doctor barely whispers.

“Just leave me,” Wilf decides. The Doctor looks at him. Plain, old Wilf. He can see it now. He was worrying these last couple of days about a confluence of events, but he should’ve looked at the confluence of him and Wilf. He has a choice, but he doesn’t want to make it. 

“Ok, right, then I will,” he snaps, spins away, “’cause you had to go in there, didn’t you? You had to go and get stuck! Oh, yes!”

Wilf looks scared, not just of his situation, but of the Doctor.

“’Cause that’s who you are, Wilfred,” the Doctor’s voice cracks. “You were always this. Waiting for me, all this time.” 

“No, really,” Wilf insists, “just leave me. I’m an old man, Doctor. I’ve had my time.”

“Well, exactly!” the Doctor snarls. “Look at you. Not remotely important.”

Wilf looks as if the Doctor has slapped him. The Doctor looks away, unable to face Wilf. He turns and walks towards the burnt out shell of the link; he needs to stay in motion.

“But me?” the Doctor continues, hurt and angry. Looking up at the heavens, as if beseeching someone, he shouts, “I could do so much more. So much more!” 

He slumps, full of despair, against destroyed equipment. With every beat of his hearts, he feels like a failure. He’s been running from this. As soon as the Ood first warned him, he ran, and then he kept running. It’s what he does after all. He thought it would be the Master, and it was. His hearts ache. The Master, in those last moments, all of that emotion right there. The Doctor feels like a failure for so, so many reasons right now, but the Master is at the top. So many years, so many conflicts, so much friendship, love, passion, and he never _listened_. 

“But this is what I get, my reward,” the Doctor says softly. Then, shouting, snarling at the the universe, lashing out, “but it’s not fair!”

Overwhelmed and out of breath, the Doctor looks back at Wilf. His features are painted in regret and pity, grief and fear. The Doctor feels humbled. This man, who he called a giant just last night, with his love and his loyalty, is worth ten of him right now.

“Oh. Oh. Live too long,” the Doctor whispers. He’s not more important than Wilf. Keeping this self, this regeneration is not more important than Wilf’s life. He makes his way to the bolt, accepting his fate. 

“No, no, no, please don’t,” Wilf begs. Then, with tears, he shouts, “please don’t! Please!”

“Wilfred,” the Doctor says, hand on the door. He puts as much apology and affection into the words, “it’s my honor. Better be quick!”

Whirling into the chamber, he counts down. He’s glad that Wilf gets out in time.

Then the pain hits him. He’s died before, of course he has, but this time is worse. The physical pain is immense, but it’s tangled up in grief at losing his people, his world, and the Master again. It’s almost overshadowed by the rage and the fury and the shame. He curls up on the floor of the bolt, sobbing not just for himself, but for the Master, for Wilf, for Donna. 

When the power fails, the Doctor is surprised he hasn’t regenerated yet. Wilf looks, well, overwhelmed, but rightfully so, the Doctor thinks, after a day like this. 

“Hello,” he says wonderingly.

“Hi,” the Doctor manages.

“Still with us?” 

“System’s dead,” the Doctor explains instead of answering. He gains his feet slowly, out of breath. He glances at the controls. “I absorbed it all. Whole thing’s kaput.” He tries the door. It creaks open. “Oh, now it opens, yeah,” he sighs.

It’s a bit anticlimactic to just walk out. Well, compared to the standoff earlier, everything is anticlimactic.

“Well, here we are then, safe and sound,” Wilf says. Then, pointing at the Doctor’s face and general bedragelness, “mind you, you’re in a hell of a state. You’ve got some battle scars there.”

It’s as if Wilf’s words bring the sting back into his wounds. He runs tired hands over beaten face, and the pain starts to fade.

“But they… your face?” Wilf looks on in awe, “how did you do that?”

The Doctor looks down at hands that should be battered and cut, and sees only healthy skin. 

“It’s started,” the Doctor says, resigned. He’s not sure how to respond when Wilf, when the man that killed him, hugs him and begins to weep.

“I think,” a tired, painfully-familiar voice says, “I might be sick.”

The Doctor’s head jerks up. Hidden in the rubble, where the portal to Gallifrey had been, sits the Master. He looks world-weary. He looks _tired_. The Doctor watches as the Master stands, huffs a laugh, and then meanders towards them. When Wilf sees him and skitters to the side, the Master laughs. Mid-laugh his form flickers. The _wrong-ness_ of it tears at the Doctor’s hearts. 

“Oh, don’t give me that look,” the Master snaps. 

“What look?” the Doctor whispers. It might be alright to regenerate, to lose this self, if it means the Master is still here. If it means that he’s not alone. 

“The kicked puppy look,” the Master responds with a laugh. “You are, quite possibly, the most predictable man in the universe.”

“You didn’t know what I was going to do twelve minutes ago,” the Doctor points out. The Master pauses. The immobility looks strange on him. The look he gives the Doctor says volumes though. 

“No,” the Master eventually smiles, “no, I guess I didn’t.”

Wilf looks between the two of them. He’s probably still confused by all of the interaction he’s seen between them. It’s understandable, thinks the Doctor. Given just the recent facts, with no context, one might think the Doctor mad for caring about the Master, for being overwhelmingly glad to see him alive, on this planet, and in this timeline. 

What Wilf can’t understand, what no human can understand, is what it feels like to be the last of their kind. Aside from that, to be a Time Lord. No one aside from the Master understands, in perfect clarity, how the Doctor perceives the universe. Travelling with humans is as close as he can get emotionally, aside from the visual similarity, but they can never understand the entirety of time and space the way another Time Lord can. 

“I still want to help,” the Doctor finally offers. The Master quirks a smile. It’s a sharp, hungry smile. And yet, the Doctor can see something in his eyes that makes a tiny, beaten part of him feel a shimmer of hope. 

“And you will,” the Master says. His tone sounds greedy. It makes a shiver slip down the Doctor’s back, just as his words in the wasteland had. His twitching, mad, compulsive hunger is still lurking just under his skin. The Doctor jerks back, but not quick enough to avoid the Master’s touch. Wilf moves forward, but the Doctor waves him back.

“Stay back,” the Doctor warns. The Master’s look is mocking.

“Trying to save that pathetic human, even still?” The Master’s voice is cruel. It’s as if he knows how very close the Doctor was to just walking away. “As it stands, I plan to take advantage of that.”

“Advantage?” the Doctor asks. He hates not understanding. But… in some ways he loves it, loves not being the only genius in the room.

“Yes,” the Master says solemnly. And then, with a wicked, teasing grin, he asks, “how badly do you want to keep this self?”

And isn’t that one of those things that humans, that no other species, can understand. _Desperately_ , the Doctor wants to say. The Master must read the answer on his face, because he grins broadly, and reaches up to bracket the Doctor’s face with hands that burn fever-hot. When their foreheads touch, the Doctor tries to brace himself for the noise… except it’s not there. When the Doctor eases closer to the Master, he realizes that, yes, the drums are still there, but they’re immensely faint. Not like the warbeat in the wastelands.

He’s so distracted by the sudden calm and quiet in the Master’s normally frenetic mind, that he doesn’t properly notice that the hands framing his face have slid around his neck. The Doctor blinks open his eyes, and squints at the Master. 

“Wanna give me your regeneration?” the Master whispers. Even a year ago, the Doctor would have reeled back. (Well, eight hundred and seventy three years ago he wouldn’t’ve.) It’s somewhere below artron progenation on the scale of horrendously taboo things for a Time Lord to do. If he and the Master were bonded it might be different. (A voice that sounds suspiciously like the Master reminds him that they were nearly bonded once.)

“If I say yes,” the Doctor says, pulls back from the Master far enough to meet his eyes without squinting, but not far enough away that the Master lets go. “You’ll have a part of me, a part of my next regeneration inside of you.”

“No,” the Master grins, “I’ll have a part of _this_ regeneration in me.”

The way the Master says it makes it sound suggestive and… _naughty_. The Master grins wider at whatever face the Doctor makes. Feeling off-kilter, and too bruised by shattered hope, he latches onto the darker part of himself, the darker part of _this_ self. He tugs at the Master, slides hands along his face, and pulls their foreheads back together.

_You do this, Koschei, there’s no going back._

The Master tears himself away, stumbles back a few feet. He looks hurt and confused, just as he had sixteen minutes ago. The Doctor holds out, not a gun this time, but a hand.

“Yes, I want to give you a regeneration,” he says. He breathes out, feels a calm pour over him like he hasn’t for a long time. Either he and the Master are going to walk away from this as the selves they are now, or the Doctor is going to walk away from this as a new man that doesn’t care nearly as much as this one does.

“You still plan on keeping me?” the Master asks. He’s edging closer. The Doctor shrugs. The Master lashes out when he’s within arm’s reach, pushes their minds closer.

_You left!_

The Doctor stumbles back, lands on his knees. The Master’s accusation is full of _grief-love-pain-hate-want-need_.

“Yes,” the Doctor says. He feels tears that refused to fall when faced with his own death, succumb to gravity. “And there is no action of mine in the entirety of space and time that I regret more.”

“Oh, now that’s a different tune,” the Master snarls. The Doctor sees the distraction for what it is, though. He reaches out again, snags a sleeve, and pulls the Master down into a hug.

_I want this, Koschei. I’ve wanted this since the end of the universe. We can go anywhere, we can go anywhen. Yes, I left. And I’m so sorry. If you want this regeneration, and the next, and the next, they’re yours. If you say no, I become a different man anyway._

“You’ve always known me,” the Doctor whispers out loud. He can feel the Master’s tears across his knuckles. “You know I’m a coward. You say no, and I’ll just run. I’d rather you say yes, and then we can run together.”

_I’m not promising I won’t take over a few galaxies._ The Master’s voice is warm in his mind, despite the distance. They haven’t been this open to each other in centuries, but it still feels familiar.

_I’d be worried if you didn’t try._ The Master smiles, bright, and the Doctor mirrors it. 

They don’t have long to revel in their reunion, their re-connection. The Master’s form flickers again.

“Hungry,” the Master whispers. The Doctor makes a soothing noise and pulls the Master’s hands away from his belly, and places them on the Doctor’s chest. The Master meets his eyes. Even without the psychic connection, he can read the question in the Master’s eyes. He nods. The Master’s eyes fall shut. 

When it happens, it’s both long and short, painful and pleasurable. One of the most uncomfortable parts of regeneration is the loss of time. For every other species in the universe, losing track of time is just something that happens. For a Time Lord it’s maddening and terrifying and _painful_. The Doctor can feel his regeneration sliding out of him. It’s not dissimilar to redirecting the artron energy into his hand. In other ways it’s completely different. That was a handy biological receptacle. This is another Time Lord. 

No, not just another Time Lord. This is the Master, _Koschei_ , a Time Lord he almost bonded with before he ran away. Their minds don’t accidentally meld; their too old and controlled for that. Their selves are so well-defined that they don’t lose any of that either. A startling amount of their personalities are similar, and so there isn’t any issues there. However, the Doctor feels some of his compassion bleeding into the Master, who fights it. He also feels some of the Master’s possessiveness bleed into him; he doesn’t fight it. 

There’s something impeding the process though, some damage in the Master that can’t be fixed with regeneration. The Doctor pushes more energy his way, thinking perhaps it really will take more than one of his regenerations.

_Stop_ , the Master whispers in the Doctor’s mind. _It’s the drums. Regeneration doesn’t heal them._

_But maybe this time it will_ , the Doctor insists, hopes. _Maybe my regeneration will._

_Sanctimonious idiot. Just let that part go. Focus on the rest of me._

The Doctor hates it, but gives in and moves on. He focuses instead on tracing the physical functions of the Master’s body. The degeneration of his body is healed. Proper artron energy flows through him. The Doctor briefly wonders if he’ll change form. He hopes he doesn’t.

_Feeling sentimental?_ The Master mocks. The Doctor can see that it’s supposed to be a distraction from the Master’s own desire to remain unchanged.

_Yes._

_Idiot._

_Just for you._ The Master snorts an inelegant laugh. 

The artron energy burns through them. The Doctor winces as his cracked bones slide fully back into place, as the lingering damage from being aged by the Master fades. The Master screams as his damaged, dying body burns and then reforms. They’re both immensely glad that when the golden energy fades, sinks into both of their skin, that they look at each other with the same eyes, the same faces. The psychic link fades. It’s not broken entirely, but it’s properly distant.

“Doctor?” Wilf whispers. The Master rolls his eyes, and his head, to look at the man. There’s something cruel building in his face.

“He saved us both,” the Doctor points out. The Master whips round to look at him. He searches the Doctor’s face and then sighs. He stands and reaches down to pull the Doctor to his feet. Looking over at Wilf, the Doctor slants him a grin, and says, “I’m fine, Wilf.”

“But… he’s…” Wilf tries to say, points at the Master. The Master runs hands through his hair, glances at the Doctor and Wilf, shrugs and walks towards the exit. 

“I’ll just wait over here?” the Master says with a smirk. “Good luck explaining the fact that you’re going to let me walk free.”

“Really?” the Doctor snaps. He glares at the Master who just smiles cheekily back. Turning to Wilf, he feels a pang of sadness at Wilf’s shocked, accusatory expression. “It’s impossible to explain, Wilf.”

“All the things he’s done?” Wilf asks weakly, “all this damage, turning everyone into himself, threatening Donna, and you’re gonna let him go?”

“No,” the Doctor says. The Master’s head whips up from where he was poking at the leftover Vinvochi equipment. “I’m going to go with him.”

“Sentimental,” the Master snorts. 

“But,” Wilf says weakly again.

“We’re the only ones left, Wilf,” the Doctor tries to explain. Maybe Donna would have understood. Time knows, Martha didn’t. “Try and imagine it, that you were the only human left in the whole of time and space. And then imagine what it would be like to find another. Someone who knew how you perceived the universe, someone-”

“He can’t imagine it, Doctor,” the Master points out harshly. “The human brain can’t even comprehend the entirety of time and space, how could you also expect it to comprehend being a lone survivor?”

Wilf looks a bit insulted, but also sad. And, yes, the Doctor can see that he also doesn’t understand. He sighs.

“I’m sorry, Wilf,” he says softly. “I really am, but I’m not going to change my mind. Not this time. C’mon, I’ll take you back to Donna.”

“What?” the Master asks, sharp. The Doctor shrugs.

“He’s here because of me,” he explains. The Master rolls his eyes. Fine, thinks the Doctor, “I also owe it to Donna.”

“Best friend?” the Master mocks. The Doctor slaps him in the shoulder as he passes, pushes the Master out the door. Wilf trails behind them.

When they reach the stable, the Master spins round, sniffs at the air and then laughs.

“Just a second out of sync?”

“Yep,” the Doctor says happily. Wilf is still a little ways away, watching them warily. The Doctor gestures the Master forward, tugs him closer. The Master struggles, but calms when the Doctor slides hands along his jaw and pulls their foreheads together again.

_Promise me._

“Promise you what?” the Master asks out loud. The Doctor pets along his jaw. The Master shivers.

_Promise me that you’ll stay with me._

_Are you asking me out on a date again?_

_Promise me, Master._

_I love it when you use my name._

_Promise me._

_You know I shouldn’t be surprised. You’re always stubborn-_

_Promise me!_ The Doctor demands. Then he begs. _Please, Master. Promise me that you’ll stay with me._

_I promise that and we’ll be…_

_Very close to bonding_ , the Doctor finishes. The Master slips his hands up to hold the Doctor close.

_I’m not bonding with you._

_I’m not asking you to._ The Doctor winces when, _yet_ , escapes. The Master hums, but hides the associated emotion from the Doctor.

_I promise that I won’t leave you without very clear warning._ The Master adds, _you know I can’t promise anything more broad than that_ , when the Doctor moves to interrupt. The Doctor sighs and accepts the promise. 

They step away from each other at the same time, and let their hands drop. The Doctor reaches into his pocket and draws out his sonic screwdriver. Flicking it to setting 796, he brings the TARDIS back in sync with their timeline. The Master laughs happily, strokes fond hands across her door. She makes a disapproving whir. The Master sighs.

“Fine,” he growls, “I’m sorry about the paradox machine, but really it’s his fault for fusing your coordinates.”

“Oi!” the Doctor objects. The TARDIS door swings open the second time the Master strokes it. He shoots the Doctor a triumphant grin and dashes inside. The Doctor holds the door open and waves Wilf forward. “C’mon, let’s get you home.”

Wilf is silent on the way back. The Doctor has to continuously slap the Master’s hands away from the controls.

“You’re overdriving the spatial dampener,” the Master snaps.

“I am not,” the Doctor says automatically. Glancing at the screen, he winces. “Alright, fine, I am.”

“Told you,” the Master sings. The Doctor can’t hold in a grin. They land the TARDIS with a great deal more care than the Doctor usually manages on his own. The Master catches his elbow as the Doctor heads to the door where Wilf is already waiting. “You’re not going to be long? Good, leave the door open. For both our sakes.”

The Doctor nods again, and gestures Wilf out. He stays in the doorway.

“Whoa,” the Doctor murmurs, seeing Sylvia Noble in her doorway, “she’s smiling. As if today wasn’t bad enough.”

Wilf looks as if he wants to invite the Doctor in, to ask him to see Donna. The Doctor looks between him and Sylvia, and then back into the TARDIS where the Master is leaning against the console.

“Anyway,” the Doctor says with a little smile. He makes a split-second decision, “don’t go thinking this is goodbye, Wilfred. I’ll see you again. One more time.”

“What do you mean? When’s that?”

“Just,” the Doctor looks round, nods to himself. One more time, he thinks, “keep looking. I’ll be there.”

“Where’re you going?” Wilf asks. Again, with the almost-accusing voice. The Doctor looks between him and Sylvia, then at the house where he knows Donna is.

“To get my reward,” the Doctor says. Wilf looks… well, he actually looks as if he understands. The Doctor turns back into the TARDIS and closes the door behind him. He flicks the lock, and meets the Master’s eyes. 

“So, reward?” the Master says. His eyes are wet and wary, like they were when the Doctor had a gun aimed at him. The Doctor smiles. The Master doesn’t shrink away from the Doctor, but he does square his shoulders in a way that warns the Doctor not to touch.

“Were you awake for that bit?” the Doctor asks.

“You mean the raging bit?” the Master asks with a bit of a grin. “Oh, yes. I thought you were going to walk away for a moment there.”

“I thought I was, too,” the Doctor admits. Then, back to the original question, “yes, reward. I’ve saved this planet, the whole damn universe enough times in this regeneration, I think I deserve a bit of a reward.”

“So, you’re still of a mind to keep me,” the Master snaps.

“Egotistical much?” the Doctor laughs. The Master’s brows draw together. “You’re not a prize, or spoils, or a reward to be won. My reward is saving those I love one more time, and then saying goodbye. Then… then, I get to travel the universe with you.”

“Save?” the Master starts. He must see something across the Doctor’s face because he bursts into raucous laughter. “You never could resist breaking that law.”

The Doctor just grins. He spins to the controls and sets it for fifty years in the future, then does an internet search for obituaries. Scans the list and finds two that he can change, that he wants to change. The Master looks on, bemused as he goes to Martha and Mickey first. Grabbing his mallet, he dashes out, whacks the lurking Sontaran in the back of the neck. 

Martha turns just in time and sees him. She smacks Mickey in the shoulder softly until he turns as well. The Doctor gives them a little salute. Mickey doesn’t understand, but Martha clearly does. 

Next is Luke Smith. He’s not going to let a car accident drive Sarah Jane to an early grave. He catches Luke just in time. Just before he enters the TARDIS, he catches sight of Sarah Jane. She understands instantly, and waves him goodbye. He spares her a smile and closes the door behind him. 

“Was that Sarah Jane Smith?” the Master asks. The Doctor nods. 

He borrows a quid off of Jeffrey Noble, buys a winning lottery ticket, and then travels to Donna’s wedding day. He speaks quietly with Wilf and Sylvia for the last time. Wilf understands that this is goodbye for good.

When the Doctor closes the TARDIS door behind him, he has to suck in steadying breaths. He startles when a firm hand grips his shoulder. The Master looks… knowing. The Doctor gives him a watery smile. It’s brilliant to know that someone really does understand, that he has someone who can comprehend, and not just try and imagine. 

As he sets the coordinates for his last trip, he stumbles. The Master pushes him into the console seat, and flips the temporal accumulator on, sets the velocity delineator, and spins the paradox dampeners with a frown. He looks as worn out as the Doctor. 

“Are we crossing a timeline?” the Master asks. When the TARDIS sparks her displeasure, the Master snorts a laugh, cranks up the paradox dampeners and sets the radiation manipulator to 73. “Yours or mine?”

“Mine,” the Doctor whispers. The TARDIS shudders to a stop, with an annoyed whir. He staggers to the door. He’s nauseous and his head is pounding. He’s not done with the regeneration cycle, which means that neither is the Master. He glances back, and sees the Master slumped against the console.

“Almost done?” he asks hopefully. The Doctor nods. Then in a fit of fancy, he motions the Master forward.

“I want you to meet her.” The Master arches a brow, but slowly makes his way out of the TARDIS and… into snow? The Doctor smiles, sick but happy. Real, proper snow.

“And who am I meeting?” the Master asks. The Doctor leads them to a side street with a view of the Tyler’s flat. 

“Her name is Rose,” the Doctor murmurs. Just then, she walks past them. The wrenching pain of crossing his own timeline pulls a moan from him. Concerned, Rose turns their way.

“You alright, mate?” she asks. The Doctor leans against the Master heavily who shoots Rose an apologetic smile. She guesses, “bit too much to drink?”

“Something like that,” the Master replies for him. 

“Well, happy new year,” she wishes. The Doctor smiles at her genuine happiness.

“What year is it?” the Doctor manages to ask.

“Blimey, how much did you have?” she asks with a laugh. Then, “2005.”

“I bet,” the Doctor says with a broad grin, “you’re going to have a fantastic year.”

“Thanks, mate,” she says, amused. She turns away with a wave. 

He stumbles towards the TARDIS. The Master, just as tired, but at least not stepping on his own timeline, helps drag him inside. The Doctor lands heavily on the grating. The Master sets the TARDIS free, and she happily spins into orbit and back to the 1330s. The Doctor sighs in relief as soon as they’re away from 2005.

“Who was she?” the Master asks again, as he slides down to sit shoulder to shoulder, next to the Doctor.

“My first companion after the war,” the Doctor whispers. He smiles, remembering her bright, happy stubbornness. “I traveled by myself for so long afterwards. I couldn’t bear the thought of caring again. But she burst into my life and wouldn’t leave. She healed me, I think. My last regeneration was so damaged after the war, so bitter and lonely. Then there was Rose. She even stayed with me after I regenerated into this self.”

“Where did she end up? She looked…” the Master frowns, “faded. Like her own timeline was damaged somehow. Or highly in flux? I don’t know, I’m too tired.”

“Parallel universe,” the Doctor answers. The Master glances at him and laughs.

“You’ve been away from proper people too long, if you’re excited that I can see someone’s timeline is that damaged.”

“No one else but us can see that,” the Doctor points out. “I’ve been the only one for so long.”

The Master doesn’t respond. He tilts his head back, looks up into the TARDIS and sighs. Then, with more energy than the Doctor has, the Master stands, reaches down and drags him to his feet.

“Up you get,” the Master demands. “We need sleep. And free-radicals and tannin. My head is killing me.”

“Tea,” the Doctor corrects. This regeneration prefers tea. The Master snorts.

“An actual injection would work better,” he points out. The Doctor shrugs. 

“But tea tastes better. C’mon, kitchen is this way.”

“I know,” the Master points out, “unless you’ve changed things since I had her, I know where everything is. Including your outrageous closet.”

The Doctor doesn’t want to think of the paradox machine. Instead he makes his way to the kitchen.

 

One hour and seventeen minutes later finds the two Time Lords clean, fed, caffeinated and passed out on the sofa in the media room. This is only three minutes after the Master left off his mocking about the fact that the Doctor had an eight-bit Pac Man machine next to a 73rd century immersion platform version. And only forty minutes since the Master finished his rant on tea.

Seven minutes after they fall asleep their dreams merge. 

_Get out of my head_ , the Master demands. The Doctor looks around. It looks like they’re standing on the surface of the Cheetah world. The Master glares at him. He’s in his current regeneration. The Doctor looks down and is pleased to find that he is as well. _Get out of my head!_

_Maybe I should be yelling at you to get out of mine_ , the Doctor points out. In the distance, they watch as Sontarans have a shouting contest with a platoon of Judoon. In the far distance, the Doctor can just make out the end of the universe spheres chasing teletubbies. _On second thought, I think we might be in yours._

_I was just going to say the same thing_ , the Master admits. The Doctor follows his gaze. The Face of Boe appears to be having a tea party with a Cyber King. The Doctor turns back to the Master. They burst into laughter simultaneously. At some point the Doctor’s laughing turns to sobbing. The Master hushes him. _You are an embarrassing wreck. Leave off that._

_I can’t._

_Yes, you can. I… I have no intention of going anywhere without you._ The Master doesn’t do anything as tacky as blush, but he does look intensely uncomfortable. The Doctor presses his shoulder into the Master’s and breathes deep. The tears don’t stop, but he catches his breath. 

_Why?_

_I haven’t been alone as long as you have. At least not as a Time Lord. But I spent eighteen months, eleven days, six hours, and fifty-nine minutes with only humans for company. And just that, the fact that you don’t roll your eyes when I’m properly specific about time, is worth dealing with your baggage._

_More than half my baggage involves you. I might even make an argument for all of it._ But the Doctor understands what he means. He takes comfort in someone being specific. He’s gotten far too used to rounding for his human companions, but now he can be… well, himself. 

_Your obsession with Earth has nothing to do with me_ , the Master insists.

_Maybe not_ , the Doctor agrees. The Face of Boe has teleported away, the Sontarans have won the shouting match, and are now waging glorious war on the Cyber King. The world starts to bend and reform. It’s not long before they’re standing on slopes of red grass. The Doctor glares at the Master. _This isn’t helpful._

_Maybe not for you_ , the Master says, unrepentant. _Have you ever used a chameleon circuit on yourself?_

_Yes._

_How long?_

_Four months, one day, and forty minutes._

_Seventy-one years, ten months, ten days, twenty-three hours, four minutes, and thirty-nine seconds._

_I can’t imagine_ , the Doctor apologizes. He can extrapolate, but he imagines that the sensations wouldn’t build in a linear progression.

_I can’t imagine being the only Time Lord in the universe for decades._

_You know, I can’t actually tell you how long it was._ The Master turns sharp eyes on the Doctor. The Doctor shrugs, wipes his face dry finally. The Master looks appalled. _When I regenerated after the war… it took far longer than it should have. I… the TARDIS was drifting in the time vortex. Her records show that she broke free, and then dived back nine times. I know I was unaware for at least six days of non-vortex travel._

_Doctor_ , the Master reaches out. He looks properly distraught. The Doctor keeps speaking. He can’t seem to stop, now that he has someone who can understand listening.

_All of the time in the vortex… the artron energy suspended the internal time matrix. I… I don’t know how much time I lost._

_I’m sorry_ , the Master says. He searches the Doctor’s face, before pulling him into a hug. It’s not terribly coordinated, and the Doctor finds himself with his legs tangled with the Master’s and his head bowed, tucked into his friend’s shoulder. And he _is_ his friend. He can feel it. 

_When?_ The Master pretends not to understand the question. The Doctor sighs, and clarifies, _when did you realize these regenerations were compatible?_

_Compatible_ , the Master spits out. He sounds furious, but he doesn’t let go of the Doctor. _Clinging to clinical terms, are we?_

_Fine_ , the Doctor snaps back. W _hen did you realize that these regenerations were as capable of bonding as our first selves were? When did you realize we were similar,_ and _different, enough to be friends again?_

_As soon as I regenerated._ The Master says into the Doctor’s hair. The Doctor thinks that the Master might press a kiss there, too. _We worked flawlessly together when I was Yana. Even after I was restored, I could feel it. The recognition, the sudden hope. When I was just about to regenerate I remember thinking that if you could be young and strong, then so could I. Just your presence reshaped my regeneration, I think._

_Is that why you ran?_

_Well, combined with that disgusting Captain of yours and the end of the universe, yes._

_Who’s mind do you think we’re in?_ The Doctor asks. He pulls away far enough to watch the Master’s face. The Master shrugs, grins wide. 

_Does it matter?_

_Yes._

_Yours._ The Master strokes his fingers down the Doctor’s cheek. The Doctor frowns.

_How do you know?_

_I’m wearing a suit. Your Converse are red. I’ve never seen you in red Converse. You don’t look as attractive as you should. And you’re a bit ginger._

_I’ve always wanted to be ginger._

_I know._ And there it is. The Master does know. Just like the Doctor knows. There’s no one else in the universe, in all of time and space, inside or outside of the time-locked Time War, that knows them like they do. 

It’s always been the two of them. The Doctor and the Master think the next thought together.

_I hope it always will be._

 

They blink awake at the same time, too. Somehow in the twenty-five minutes of dreaming, they migrated closer together. The Doctor is slumped into the Master’s shoulder, and the Master’s nose is pressed into the Doctor’s hair.

“I’d like to tell you to stay out of my head,” the Master murmurs sleepily, “but that was on me, I think. I hope it’s not permanent. That was exhausting.”

Now that the Master mentions it, the Doctor _does_ feel more tired than when they fell asleep. He cracks his neck and then hops up. He wavers, but then reaches down and pulls the Master to his feet. They don’t look like mighty Time Lords, in their jim-jams stumbling down the hall. The Doctor shoulders open his bedroom door, and pulls the Master in behind him.

“Why, Doctor,” the Master laughs, “I had no idea you were so impatient.”

“It’s not that, you twat,” the Doctor mutters. He can feel his ears heating. He doesn’t turn on a light, but does flip the covers down.

“You make your bed?” the Master asks lightly. The Doctor shrugs. He doesn’t have the hearts to mention that this is the only regeneration since he was born that has that habit. The Master bounces onto the bed with a laugh. And then immediately burrows under the covers with a sigh. The Doctor gets into his bed gingerly. He’s not surprised by the hands the reach for him. He is surprised at how insistent they are that he move closer. 

“Who’s impatient now?” the Doctor laughs. The Master snorts, but keeps pulling until they’re tangled up and facing each other.

“Stay out of my head,” the Master says quietly.

“Stay out of mine,” the Doctor returns. The Master hums lightly, and then leans forward. He tastes like tea, the Doctor thinks idly. The Master’s mouth is gentle, and slow like molasses. They’ve kissed hundreds of times in the course of their lives. Aside from Koschei’s first self, the Master has never kissed this carefully. He’s still pushy, of course, but he’s playful. The Doctor smiles into the kiss. Then, feeling cheeky, he nips. The Master breaks their kiss to laugh. 

“I’ll never forgive you,” the Master says with a smile. His bottom lip looks redder. The tone is so open and pleasant, that the Doctor doesn’t immediately catch on. Seeing his confusion, the Master rolls his eyes, and says with a more dangerous smile, “if you leave me this time, I’ll burn the whole of space and time.”

“I know,” the Doctor says solemnly. Then, “I won’t. I can’t. I’ll stay in here with you for the rest of our lives, if that’s what you want. I shouldn’t’ve-”

“No,” the Master says, firm but relatively calm. “We’re not going to talk about that. Ever. This, these versions of us, this is what I want to enjoy. So, chop chop, it’s time to enjoy.” 

“Really?” the Doctor laughs, “that’s your come on? Chop chop?”

“Well, you already shoved me in your bed,” the Master quips, “I figured there was no need for romance or trickery.”

“Only you would find romance and trickery interchangeable,” the Doctor murmurs. The Master just laughs. 

With tiredness creeping up on them again, they don’t do anything more energetic than exchange a handful of lazy kisses. When they fall asleep, their minds brush, but don’t merge. 

It’s the most restful sleep either of them have had in centuries.

 

It’s three days, two hours and eleven minutes later that they’re finally both back to rights. The Master has refused to change out of the Doctor’s pajamas. The Doctor has changed into his blue suit. Not his luckiest, but certainly better than the tattered remains of the brown pinstripe. 

“Why not?” the Doctor asks, not for the first time. 

“Because there’s nothing in your closet that I like,” the Master answers, also not for the first time. 

“Well, what’s your solution,” the Doctor sighs, “unless you really intend to travel the stars in my jim-jams.”

“Are you really going to point fingers at fashion choices? Shall I recount your many missteps? I think I’ll start with the cape-”

“Hey, I loved that cape,” the Doctor interrupts, feeling stung. He still has that cape.

“And how do you know I don’t love these pajamas?”

“Because when you think I’m not looking, you scowl at them.”

The Master has no response for that. He sighs, scowls down at his pajamas and slippers, and then heaves an even louder sigh. 

“Fine, Gaskych-7,” the Master decides.

“The fifty-third century’s largest planet-mall?” the Doctor asks. The Master just arches an eyebrow. The Doctor smiles wide. It’s not what he would have imagined as their first trip, but at least it’s something more exciting than meandering through the TARDIS’s halls. “Right, Gaskych-7.”

When the TARDIS whirs to a stop, the Doctor happily dashes for the door, and nearly sighs in relief that he hit their target. The planet-mall is surprisingly empty… _suspiciously_ empty.

“She likes disasters,” the Master says when he exits the TARDIS. It doesn’t sound like a question. “What’s the date?”

The Doctor moves to a kiosk, sets his sonic to setting 4 and searches through the mall directory. He frowns when he finds the time and date.

“Let me guess, seventeenth of March in 5298, somewhere before 17:07, but after 15:45?” The Master sounds smug. The Doctor glares at him.

“Alright, yes, after the evacuation, but before the planet explodes. We have twenty-three minutes.” The Doctor holds his serious face for nine seconds before it shifts into a gleeful grin, and he and the Master bolt for the nearest store. 

The Master deftly steals the Doctor’s sonic screwdriver, finds a store he likes, breaks into it and starts rummaging. 

“And before you scold me,” the Master says just before the Doctor does just that, “let me remind you that the entire planet is going to explode in nineteen minutes. No one’s going to care about theft, let alone whether I return things to the shelf. 

The Master dawdles long enough that they have to run for the TARDIS just as the planet begins to shake ominously. As they spin back into the time vortex, the Doctor takes in the Master’s new look. The trousers are gray, faintly plaid, and look ridiculously expensive. His shirt looks fairly average, but when the Doctor runs curious fingers along the edge, he finds that it is invitingly soft. His leather jacket is long, lined in gray, and also expensive-looking, but still makes the Doctor think fondly back to his previous regeneration’s own well-loved leather jacket. 

The effect is nothing like the Master’s previous wasteland wardrobe or Harold Saxon’s posh disguise. He looks haughty but relaxed, secure in being the smartest person in the room. The Doctor likes it. 

“Approve, do we?” the Master says with a fond smirk. The Doctor grins and nods.

“It fits.”

_Yes, I suppose it does._ The Master’s voice is warm and close, even from across the console. They share a smile, size each other up, and start thinking of the endless possibilities of what comes next. 

 

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> This is what I picture as the Master's "new look": 
> 
> Come say hi at Tumblr: kiscico.tumblr.com


End file.
